ticle, entitled, 'The Cultivated,
as Moving and Educational Powers.' My manuscripts were returned, with
this quiet bit of advice:--'Before "X.Y.Z." institutes any other
reforms, we would advise him to reperuse his English Grammar.' Far from
having a salutary effect, this rebuff only rankled in my soul. I
determined to revenge myself on the paltry malignant who dared to
despise my efforts. I therefore wrote a slashing criticism for one of
the evening papers, demolishing (as I thought) the delinquent
periodical, and denouncing its whole corps of writers as frivolous and
almost illiterate. My satire was returned, being too personal for
publication.

"Just at this time I chanced to fall in love with Miss Ellen Wilson, now
Mrs. Martin. Fancying my passion unrequited, I poured forth my feelings
in ten melancholy stanzas, beginning,--

'Oh! what avails it, if the spring be bright?'

These verses were very morbid and dreary, but they were published in the
'Tri-Weekly Tribune,' and 'Hope revived again.'

"The drama I next deemed worthy of my attention, and wrote a play, the
plot of which I thought quite new and original. A large fortune is left
to my hero, who forthwith becomes enamored of a fair damsel; but,
fearful lest the beloved object should worship his money more than his
merits, he disguises himself in a wig and blue spectacles, becomes tutor
to her brother, and wins her affections while playing pedagogue. On her
acknowledging her attachment, he flings his disguises into the sea, and,
in the wildness of his joy at being adored for his profundity in Latin,
Greek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, German, Mathematics, Natural Science,
and Civil Engineering, folds his loved one in his arms, and springs into
the surf, where both are drowned.

"This, you see, was quite new."

"Quite," I replied, laughing.

"I published it at my own expense, and I must say I have yet to receive
the first remittance for this truly original work.

"During the next season, I met with Hans Andersen's inimitable
'Maerchen,' and, immediately setting myself to work, I wrote 'Uncle Job's
Legacies,' a series of children's tales, full, as I fondly fancied, of
poetry, pleasantry, and information. I sent them to 'The Juvenile
Weekly,' then published in the city. They were accepted with a profusion
of thanks; and in a few days I called, by request, at the office,
expecting large compensation for services so eagerly received.

"I went up a dirty stairca